


Don't Slip

by sv_you_know_who_I_am



Category: A Court of Thorns and Roses Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Post-ACOMAF
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-18
Updated: 2016-12-18
Packaged: 2018-09-09 13:09:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,138
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8891989
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sv_you_know_who_I_am/pseuds/sv_you_know_who_I_am
Summary: Set immediately after ACOMAF. Mor grapples with the pain and chaos in the aftermath of Hybern, and it forces her to acknowledge her feelings for a certain shadowsinger.(Merry Christmas, Sierra!)





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [illyriantremors](https://archiveofourown.org/users/illyriantremors/gifts).



> This is a gift for illyriantremors as part of our Christmas swap! Thank you for all you do for the fandom!

 

 

_Where is she?_

_He had us by the balls._

_She’s going into that house to take him down. To take them all down._

_Feyre is the High Lady of the Night Court._

The words, the conversation, all rattled in Mor’s bones like an earthquake. Her ears still rang with Feyre’s screams, Azriel’s scream, Cassian’s, Rhys’s . . .

She would have killed that king.

Done it, and enjoyed it, if not for the Illyrian male into which she was currently pouring every ounce of magic she possessed. She felt his skin through the rend in his armor--her fingertips trembled with the force of her magic, with the force of _him_ beneath them. She felt his organs, his muscles, his bones, stitching together at her touch. She prayed to the Mother that she wouldn’t ruin it, ruin him, but she knew him--knew him better than she’d ever dared to admit to herself.

She flashed through her memories for a moment, until it seemed like they had switched positions--to a time, long ago, when she had been pierced through and he had been the one kneeling over her, anchoring her with his hazel eyes, begging her with his midnight voice to stay with him. It hadn’t been his magic to heal her--Illyrian magic was not made for such delicate things. But he had stitched her together enough to keep her alive, enough to get her home, so Rhys could save her.

She had awoken days later, an empty shell, to find Azriel keeping vigil in the corner, his face shrouded with darkness. He’d had Truth-Teller out in the open and its blade had reflected the sunlight. He had contemplated the dagger as though imagining with dark delight all the things he wanted to do with it.

When he’d noticed her awake, there had been a moment when his stoic face had crumpled into devastation before he’d thrown his mask back up and turned to go find Rhys without saying a word to her.

 _Come back_ , she’d wanted to say then. She’d had no voice to beg with, no strength to try. But she did now.

 _Come back, Azriel_.

She sent one last push of magic through him and he shuddered, his breath catching before resuming a normal rhythm. He remained unconscious and Mor jerked back, sinking onto her heels as tears old and new stung the corners of her eyes.

She dared drag her gaze to Cassian, who also remained unconscious, his radiant wings tattered and covered in blood. He--he’d done it for Azriel. Done it to save his brother.

Mor’s heart cracked and everything in her leaked out to join the bloodstains on the townhouse floor. She was frozen, hollow, unable to look away from the ruin before her.

She knew--she knew she had to step up. To help Rhys, help . . . somehow. But she couldn’t lift a finger. Her whole body was cold, her ears rang . . . she was completely void.

“Morrigan.”

Only Amren’s steel voice sliced through the fog surrounding Mor’s mind. She glanced up to find those terrifying silver eyes above her. Amren frowned in her usual way, but something in her eyes was different--like she remembered. Or knew. Those old, wise eyes saw through time, for all Mor knew, and saw just where the past hour had thrown Mor.

“On your feet, girl,” Amren said, her voice insistent but soft. “Help them. Don’t slip.”

Mor let out a whoosh of breath. _Don’t slip_. She was standing on the precipice, staring at that abyss of _nothing_ that remained in a tiny corner in the bottom of her heart--that abyss into which she had fallen when her family had nearly killed her. If she kept standing there, at that edge, she’d tumble in, and right now there was no hazel-eyed Illyrian to snatch her back. She had to do it herself.

And she would. For him.

Mor stood to her feet and inhaled deeply. _Don’t let the hard days win_ , she told herself.

She hooked her hands under Azriel’s broad shoulders, struggling to tuck his wings in so she could move him to a bed. But then Rhys’s hands were there, helping her, and she looked into her cousin’s violet eyes--the eyes of furious, anguished, determined night. Rhys only nodded at her, and together they lifted Azriel and guided him to a bed to rest.

-

Golden light streamed through the window of the townhouse, its yellow rays contrasting starkly with the dark warrior spread out on the bed. Mor sat in a chair beside him, counting his breaths, listening for his heartbeats. The healers had already been there and determined that her healing had been well-executed. All Azriel needed now was rest, they said. They’d left some liquid medicine to combat any effects of the bloodbane that might remain, as Mor had not trusted that the king had removed all traces of it. But Azriel had not yet awoken.

It had been a day, but to Mor it may as well have been an hour. She’d hauled herself back from that precipice, turning her attention instead to her cousin, who pined for his mate and needed _someone_ to keep him from going mad with rage. She hadn’t left him alone that night. She’d turned away from her vigil at Azriel’s bedside to sit beside Rhys in the drawing room, not saying anything and simply refilling his drinking glass when he needed it. He’d been drawn and haunted, and Mor had known that all his attention was focused inward, on that bond that had not been broken, seeking signs of Feyre, ensuring she was all right. And he was doing what she was--replaying that day over and over in her mind, wondering what they could have done differently to save her. To save their friends.

Mor gave Rhys a scratch between his wings only once--a technique she’d used since they were children to ease him. But he’d jerked away so suddenly that he’d sent the bottle of whiskey flying, and Mor had frozen it in the air with her magic before it could stain the carpet. “I’m sorry,” she’s whispered.

“I--can’t,” he’d gasped, his breath ragged. “Feyre--”

“I know,” Mor had said. “You don’t have to explain it to me.” Any intimate touch struck him too deep, too profoundly. She understood. He just needed time. Needed not to be left alone. Rhys had run his hand over his face and shook his head, bracing his forearms on his knees and huffing out a ragged breath. So they’d sat in silence, and not slept a wink all night.

He had left in the morning to check in on Feyre’s sisters. Mor was impressed that he did, and slightly worried by it. Feyre’s sisters looked and smelled enough like her--would it wound him to have that near reminder? Was that why he’d gone, to have any trace of Feyre nearby? Mor was too weary to wonder, but she would check on him when he returned. She had promised to watch out for the Illyrians instead.

She had hovered outside of Cassian’s room for a long time, until the healers shooed her away and she’d taken up her position beside Azriel. He was slightly propped up on the pillows, his hazel eyes closed, the white sheets stark against his sun-darkened skin. He was shirtless, his Illyrian tattoos swirling over his chest and shoulders, down his back, only slightly obscured by the bandage crossed over his wound. His shadows were muted, hovering just around his ears. She wondered if they were helping him dream.

She’d dozed off once, then awoken, panicked, worried she’d missed something or that Azriel might have taken a turn for the worse while she slept. But he’d been the same. Mor sat with her sock-clad feet curled up in the chair beside her, hands clutching a now-cold mug of tea. She couldn’t tear her eyes away from him, aching though they were.

What would she have done if he hadn’t made it?

She likely would have tumbled right into that abyss and not been able to climb out again.

She set her mug aside and inched her chair closer so that she could take one of his scarred and mottled hands in hers. “Az,” she murmured, her voice hoarse despite the soothing tea. “I’m sorry, Az. You know--please tell me you know. How sorry I am. How--” She choked and swallowed. “How much I need you.”

The shadowsinger was silent as he slept on, but she thought she saw one of the tendrils of darkness by his ear lift up as though in interest.

She couldn’t bear the distance between them. And she was so, so tired. So she stood and climbed onto the bed beside him, curling her body up against his solid frame. His body trembled as her golden hair spilled out over the membrane of his wings, but still he didn’t wake.

She laced her fingers through his, her palm pressing into the Siphon on the back of his hand. She felt the trickle of his power through it. She nestled her chin and cheek against his shoulder, basking in the sun-bathed warmth of him. This was all right, she told herself. At least this way, she could sleep and still know if anything changed with him. That was all this was.

She knew it was a lie even as she began drifting off. Because as her sharp hearing picked up on his slow heartbeat and her pulse fell into its rhythm, she could not deny how right this felt. “Don’t leave me Az. Don’t leave.”

-

She was awoken by a whisper of breath across her forehead.

“ _Morrigan_.”

The silken midnight voice washed over her and she blinked her eyes open when Azriel’s hand turned in hers to squeeze her hand back. Her dark eyes fell on his, and her heart swelled and ached with relief. Tears pricked at her eyes before she could stop them. “Azriel?” she whispered. Her hot tears dripped from her eyes unbidden and splattered onto his tattooed skin.

“Mor.” His other arm reached across his chest to wipe her tears but he hissed in pain, darkness fluttering across his face. She jerked back and watched as he frowned at his chest, the truth of his injuries returning with his wakefulness. She realized it was night. _Damn_ , how long had she been asleep?

She sat up on her knees as Azriel adjusted himself into a more seated position, his shadows swirling with worry and confusion now. “Mor, what’s happened? How long has it been?”

“Azriel,” she whispered, her voice still small. It was all she could manage to say. She hadn’t realized until she had seen his eyes open how terrified she’d been that they never would. It struck her sharp and deep.

Azriel gripped her hand tight enough to hurt and said, “Mor, _tell me_.”

“A day and a half, I think,” she answered, though she really wasn’t sure what time of night it was. “The poison’s gone, but the healers said you need rest.”

Azriel nodded distantly as he catalogued the information. “The others? Cassian? Rhys?”

“Cassian is injured badly,” Mor said, hardly able to speak through the tightness of her throat. “I haven’t checked on him since this morning, but the healers were working on him. It’s . . . his wings.” She choked down a sob.

Azriel’s eyes flashed and he worked himself up straighter, stretching his own wings a bit. “The others?”

“Feyre’s sisters are in the House of Mist, alive, but afraid. Rhys went to see them this morning. He’s not . . . he’s . . .” She sucked in a breath to let it out. “Feyre’s gone.”

A jolt rushed through Azriel and she had to grip his hand tightly. “No! Not like that,” she said, cursing her weak tongue. “She went back to the Spring Court. To spy.”

“Hybern broke the bond?” Azriel asked hoarsely.

“No,” Mor said with a shake of her head. “Just the bargain. But . . . Azriel, she’s our High Lady now.”

Azriel went visibly pale in the moonlight. “What?”

“Rhys swore her in the night before we left. Our High Lady, our friend, she’s--” Mor couldn’t contain it anymore and began to weep--weep for her friend, her cousin, the shadowsinger before her and the Illyrian in the room next door. Azriel released her hand and cupped her cheek in his palm, brushing away some of the tears with his thumb. She held his wrist in both of her hands. “I was so afraid I lost you,” she confessed. “So _afraid_ , Azriel.”

Azriel’s throat bobbed and his hand twitched like he wanted to pull away, but Mor held it in place. After a long moment of quiet, he said, “I heard what you said.”

Mor’s breath caught in her chest as her eyes snapped to his.

“I’m never going to leave you, Morrigan.” Azriel’s dark voice rang so true that Mor’s heart sputtered. “Don’t you ever even wonder.”

She gasped and sniffled, releasing her hold on his wrist. But he just shifted and gathered her to his side, tucking her under his arm in a similar position to how she’d slept. _Idiot, idiot_ , her mind cursed at her. _Not Rhys’s friend. Not Azriel. Don’t . . . slip . . ._

But she already was slipping--had been for centuries. She slipped a little further every time he was gone and she waited for him at the House of Wind. Every time she sat with him to chase the shadows from his face. Every time he drank or danced with her after a hard visit to the Court of Nightmares. She relied on him--more than she’d ever realized. And now she was careening down this mountain slope, down, down, not into a dark abyss but into a world of crisp, sharp feeling. She hadn’t reached the bottom yet, but she suspected she knew what waited there.

Her fingers idly traced one of Azriel’s tattoos. “How do you feel?” she asked, unable to give voice to the thoughts whirling through her mind--unable to address the intimacy of their position. It was a straight miracle that Azriel was even allowing this, and she would not ruin it by commenting on it.

“It aches, but I’ve had worse,” he said, his voice tight. He sighed and tipped his head against the pillow bracing his back. “It all went wrong,” he said. “It should have . . . I should have--”

“Stop,” Mor said, her fingers pausing as she fixed her gaze on him. “Rhys and I have already run the whole course. No need to join us in our miserable musings.”

Azriel quirked an eyebrow up, and she could almost read his thoughts. _But miserable musing is what I do best._

“It wasn’t your fault,” she pressed on. “It wasn’t _anyone’s_ fault. The Book was unpredictable, and Hybern set a trap for us. We’re good at what we do--you’re the best--but none of us is foolproof.”

Azriel snarled softly. “I should have been. If I had made a different move, _any_ different move--”

“There were none,” Mor assured him. “We went over that plan hundreds of times. You knew the layout inside out and backwards. If it weren’t for our plans, it could have gone a thousand times worse.” A flash of pain lanced Mor’s heart. Even a little bit worse would have been devastating, but she didn’t say it. “Feyre saved us all,” she said softly. “She let them take her . . . so we could get out.”

“It doesn’t surprise me in the least that she’s Rhys’s mate.”

Mor cocked her head as she considered his expression. “You seem . . . oddly all right about that part. Her being gone.”

A flicker of amusement crossed Azriel’s features. “I wasn’t, until you told me . . . told me she was our High Lady. That changes everything.”

It did, but Mor suspected he meant it differently. “How?”

“She is the High Lady of the Night Court,” Azriel said. “The shadows . . . they obey her now. They _flock_ to her. I can--if I wanted to, I could check on her right now and not have the least bit of trouble doing it.”

Mor sucked in a breath. “Even with Tamlin’s wards?” He hadn’t been able to look in on Rhys Under the Mountain all those years because of Amarantha’s lock on Rhys’s power. But Feyre . . .

Azriel nodded. “I’m not sure if it’s because she had Spring Court magic, too, but she is not subject to the wards like we all are. I tested it when she was gone in Summer--the shadows could sense her then, thanks to her proximity to Rhys. But now . . . now they are _her_ shadows, and the wards don’t bar them from her.” Azriel almost smiled. “We’ll know everything that’s happening there.”

Mor sighed with relief and ducked her head to cling closer to Azriel. The Mother . . . the Mother had given them something, at least, in the wake of this disaster. “Rhys might very well crawl out of his skin when you tell him.”

Azriel’s hand brushed some of her hand behind her ear, and she almost went stiff at the intimacy of it. There was . . . too much. Too much to do, too much to focus on, for her to stumble to the bottom of that mountain valley now. But at least she knew she was falling. That was half the battle, so she’d been told. Perhaps that was why all her other lovers had bored her in the end, because all that time, she’d slowly been falling for the Illyrian beside her. And it hurt--hurt so very much to know, and to be unable to act on it, to do anything--especially since she didn’t yet know his thoughts on the matter. It would be foolish to assume anything.

But she thought that maybe she deserved a little foolishness after the torment of the past two days. Maybe she could let herself be a fool and think that his choice to hold her now, his words-- _I’m never going to leave you, Morrigan_ \--could mean something more. Could mean that when she finally did reach the bottom of the slope she was stumbling down, Azriel’s arms would be there to catch her.

Yes, she thought. For tonight she could be a fool.

“You should sleep some more,” she said softly. “Rhys is finally resting, too. We’ll start planning when the sun comes up.”

Azriel opened his mouth like he planned to argue, but then he gazed down at the golden-haired woman clinging to his side and nodded softly.

She was already drifting off again as his arm draped around her, and she wondered if maybe she dreamt it as his silken voice caressed her ear.

“I need you too, Morrigan.”

She sighed and nestled in close.

_Don’t slip._


End file.
